


a little death

by MissDinahDarling



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Sex, Praise Kink, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Short & Sweet, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDinahDarling/pseuds/MissDinahDarling
Summary: geralt works himself to the bone, protecting a world which hates him so much.inside the bedroom, however, jaskier makes sure that his witcher gets all the tender loving care hereallydeserves.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 1121
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	a little death

it started with a bath.

the witcher had returned to the tavern, having survived a wicked battle with a particularly enraged wyvern. though he had won, the fight had left its mark - his armour was scorched from venom, his body ached from exhaustion and his mind was wild, spiralling and replaying every moment of confrontation over and over.

he stumbles into the tavern, with his heart still pounding with life despite his soul achingly weary. he feels like death, he smells like decay - the innkeeper bares her teeth, but wisely keeps quiet. the patrons of the tavern eye him, suspicious and disgusted, but geralt continues onwards.

he stalks past them, doesn’t make eye contact. but he _feels_ the stares, he can _smell_ their hate - it makes his skin crawl and his nerves feel raw. the witcher can brave a great deal, can face down monsters born from nightmares, but he feels acutely uncomfortable, like he’s _bad_ and _wrong_ , and he’s eager to escape.

so, he makes his way upstairs and towards his room.

he feels cold and empty, his mind wild and dark.

he _needs_ , he _wants_ , he _longs_ for–

“welcome back darling.”

– _jaskier_.

the bard smiles, warm and soft, his arms open as he greets his witcher. in the corner of the room is a bath, hot and steaming. it’s filled with herbs and oils, sprinkled with petals - but geralt only has eyes for his songbird. jaskier is clothed in his loosest underclothes, lace and silk, but nothing is as alluring as the _look_ in the bard’s eye.

it’s smoky.

it’s dark.

it’s all for _geralt_.

“you don’t look like yourself,” jaskier muses, swaying towards him with an arched brow, “come, into the tub - i missed you, but i certainly did not miss _that_ smell.” he wrinkles his nose as geralt simply sighs, hums and deflates before him. the bard clasps his shoulders, shoots him an impish grin, and squeezes geralt with soft, imploring encouragement, “you _deserve_ this, so don’t argue with me.”

geralt rolls his shoulders, tests the exhaustion which rests in his bones and reluctantly accepts defeat.

he shrugs off jaskier’s touch,

he slips off his clothes,

he sinks into the water,

purrs as the heat seeps into his skin and fills the cold holes in his soul. jaskier is not his maid, but the bard tends to him, patient and adoring. he pours water over geralt’s head, bathing him in tender love, nurturing him with gentle words. it feels like a baptism and the witcher sinks into the water, holding his breath as he’s submerged in jaskier’s feelings for him - then, when his lungs burn and his heart pounds, geralt resurfaces.

the heaviness washes from his bones,

the exhaustion is drained from his muscles,

and the witcher opens his eyes and feels _reborn_.

jaskier holds out a hand, his gaze shining in the moonlit room. geralt scans his pretty face, before he drifts down to the open gesture before him. he takes it, allows their fingers to thread together, before the bard pulls him from the tub with surprising strength.

he’s led from the tub, guided towards their shared room - their single bed dominates the space and it’s covered in thick furs and silken sheets. the witcher narrows his eyes, because a tavern this derelict could not possibly earn such expensive–

but then,

he looks at the bard.

jaskier looks excited, eager and expectant - his songbird is quivering with anticipation, because he lives to spoil geralt, with song and food, with support and love. the witcher’s slow heart beat skips and trembles - he runs his thumb across the bard’s sharp knuckles and hums lightly.

his bard _understands_.

his lark just _knows_.

“come,” jaskier says, his eyes dark and glimmering, “my brave witcher, you’ve done enough tonight - let me take care of you.”

geralt blinks, blank for a second.

his mind feels hazy, foggy and _clouded_ , but his body still moves with purpose. he pads towards the bed on unsteady feet, feeling heavy and cumbersome - his soul feels warm though, and he feels safe. because he’s with _jaskier_ –

jaskier who spits and hisses at humans who _hate_ ,

jaskier whose tongue can be sharper than geralt’s swords,

whose songs can be lift spirits, but can drown reputations,

jaskier who sees geralt,

and wants to _protect_ instead of _attack_.

and so geralt goes willingly, following the bard’s orders without question, because the bard would never demand dishonourable things of him. would never command him to carry out acts that would discomfort and harm. so the witcher places his trust, _his heart_ , in jaskier’s calloused hands.

he climbs onto the bed, sinks into the soft lushness and feels his weary bones _melt_. he closes his eyes and twitches his nose - jaskier’s scent is light and floods the room with a saccharine sweetness. it reminds geralt of lemon cakes, freshly baked and soft to the touch - there’s an underlining _spice_ though, which piques the interest in geralt’s veins.

he listens to the sound of jaskier disrobing,

listens to the bard hum sweetly under his breath,

listens as his songbird joins him on the bed.

his eyes flick open and he peers down to see jaskier, naked and aroused, perched delicately above him. the bard sits himself on geralt’s hips, his eyes fluttering as their cocks brush together. his hands splay out across geralt’s stomach, his fingers twitching against prominent muscles, nails scratching against hair and scar. the bard tilts his head and scans the witcher beneath him - and geralt feels exposed - he feels flayed open underneath jaskier’s burning gaze, his blue eyes glinting with overwhelming lust.

“jaskier,” he says, and he’s surprised by how faint he sounds, how distant he feels, “i’m not a painting, so don’t just stare.”

and the bard softly laughs, shaking his head as he leans in close.

“but you’re such a work of art,” he replies, digging his nails in - geralt hums at the bite and arches his back, eager for more touch, because he can’t get enough, he’s greedy, he’s gluttonous, he wants more, more, _more_. and jaskier just purrs with delight upon seeing his reaction.

“god, i want to devour you,” the bard says, and geralt should have taken it as a warning, because jaskier descends and he is ruthless as he lathers the witcher’s body with affection.

he starts at geralt’s mouth, devouring and claiming for his own.

and fuck, how the witcher is pleased to be owned by such a creature, so wondrous, so wild, so _his_. he hums as jaskier’s teeth bite at his lips, tugging them into his own to suck and kiss. it’s deep with passion and heavy with lust, and just when their lungs begin to burn and the air grows _too hot_ , jaskier pulls away.

his lips brush downwards to bite at geralt’s jawline, his hands cupping the witcher’s face. jaskier’s fingers stroke across sharp cheekbones, curl around ears and tangle themselves into winter-white locks. and then he’s moving further down, his kisses as light as wisps as the brush down the thick line of his throat - he noses at the witcher’s pulse, laves his tongue over the beat.

geralt feels like he’s on a pedestal, on an alter, ready to be worshipped and adored - jaskier is all too willing to provide him with that reverent touch, soft and adoring. his kisses pressed along the lines of his collarbone, before they settle against the witcher’s heart.

“this is mine,” the bard whispers into the skin, nosing and kissing against the trembling beat beneath the skin. and the sweet scent clouds around them and geralt feels himself quiver as he breathes in deep; he’s never been loved before, he’s not really sure how it feels–

but…

he thinks–

he _knows_ , this is it.

and the sweetness only lasts so long, because his songbird might be sweet, but he’s sharp and cunning; he’s impish and enjoys the thrill of _teasing_ until his prey has been pushed too far. and geralt, despite being a butcher, a witcher, a monster, has always been jaskier’s prey.

and so he’s helpless, 

gloriously, delightfully _helpless_ ,

when jaskier’s hot, clever mouth latches onto a nipple, lapping and nipping at the bud; the witcher sighs, feeling his spine melt into the furs beneath him. his little lark has a talented tongue, and it trails hot and wet down his sternum - his heart flutters in his chest, as a light as the kisses which Jaskier presses into his scarred skin.

“i love these signs of life,” the bard murmurs, brushing his nose against a roping scar which hangs just above geralt’s navel, “you were meant to survive all these, you were meant to continue living - because you’re mine. and all these battles, all these fights, cannot take you away from me.”

and geralt exhales, shaky and light.

because he’s been _owned_ before,

but he’s never really _belonged_.

not until jaskier.

“you’re a strong man,” the bard continues, his tongue dipping into the curves and dips of geralt’s muscles, “a brave man,” he kisses the nicks, the marks, the scars, “a good man,” he presses a hand to geralt’s chest, “and you’re _mine_.”

and then he sinks his teeth into geralt’s chest, leaving a mark which he hopes sinks into the witcher’s heart. he soothes the sting with a kiss, before he moves down, running his fingers across thick muscle and sharp bone, scratching at the thick hair which curls on geralt’s chest, before he noses at the downy darkness which leads from his navel to his cock.

his arousal has been prominent since the bath,

but it’s almost like he’s just noticed it.

and it aches and he’s wanting,

and jaskier _notices_.

the bard breathes in deep, before he licks a stripe, hard and hot along the line of geralt’s cock. he tastes the cooling water of the bath, hums at the flavour of salted musk, before he wraps his lips around the weeping head and sucks hard. geralt gasps, threads his fingers through jaskier’s hair and fists the silken locks hard.

his songbird trills a merry tune, humming around his arousal with a tongue which swirls and traces thick veins. he pulls back, dips into the beading tip and laps at the seed which gathers there. geralt rocks his hips, purring at the heat which surrounds him, rumbling at the gentle licks and the barest brush of teeth - his eyes fall shut as the bliss crashes into his body, chasing away the exhaustion until it flees muscles, his bones.

all traces of weariness are gone.

he feels alive and wanted and–

and–

“ _jaskier_ ,” he gasps, fisting tawny hair with desperate fists.

and then the bard pulls away, a lewd string of saliva connecting his mouth to geralt’s straining cock. the witcher’s eyes snap open and he glares down, faintly irritated at being denied his pleasure - but then he falters, as he takes in the sight before him.

the bard looks lovely, captivating, _sinful_. his lips are wet, reddened and plump - swollen and inviting, god he wants to _kiss_ them. his eyes are dark, glittering and full of so many _unspoken_ promises. his hair is rumpled and thick, shining and casting a shadow across his face - fuck, his songbird is beautiful. with a jawline which begs to be bitten and cheeks which plead to be cradled - geralt wants to touch, wants to _lose himself_ in the bard.

but that’s for another night,

because right now, jaskier’s fingers have wrapped around geralt’s cock, idly playing and tracing the veins, pumping lazily and swiping at the leaking tip. the bard clearly has _plans_ , and the witcher–

he–

he wants–

he _needs–_

“ _julian_ ,” geralt murmurs, his tongue thick and clumsy, pouring all he cannot say but all he can _feel_ , into a single word.

“yes, my darling,” jaskier hushes back, his tones dulcet and crooning, “i hear you.”

and his clever fingers dance from geralt’s cock, dashing away from his body to dip in oil, only returning to trace around the witcher’s rim - until one sinks, sure and deep, chasing after the tight heat of geralt’s body. the witcher hums, closes his eyes and flexes his fingers around handfuls of fur. jaskier is talented and he knows what he seeks - his first finger is joined by a second, pressing and stretching, strumming geralt’s body like an instrument and oh, the _music_ the witcher produces.

then calloused fingers find sensitive nerves - pressing sure and true, drawing out the sighs and moans from deep within. geralt’s eyes snap open when pleasure, thick and sharp, ripples up his spine and catches in his throat. he tries to cry out, but his moan is caught, trapped, and suddenly it’s been kissed from his lips.

jaskier’s tongue dives deep, licking out the bliss and drawing it free from the witcher’s body.

the bard is an expert, a _professional_ , when it comes to pleasing lovers in bed, when it comes to bringing them bliss, providing them a moment of peace and making them feel loved and wanted–

which makes him an utter maestro when it comes to geralt’s existence.

“darling, are you ready?”

“you’ve kept me waiting this long.”

“patience,” jaskier arches a brow, smiles with a flash of teeth and a tip of tongue, “is a virtue, my dear witcher.”

“you think i have virtues?”

the bard purrs, removes his fingers and clutches onto geralt’s hips.

“i think you are good,” he murmurs, like a secret, pressing his face into the crook of geralt’s throat as he presses his cock in deep, burying himself into geralt’s core like he was _created_ for it. he was made to love geralt, to make love to geralt, to introduce the mere _concept_ of being loved to the taciturn, emotionally shy witcher. geralt chokes out a gasp, his hands flying to jaskier’s shoulders, to his arms, grasp and clutch at the exposed skin of his adoring lark. he feels the burn, the stretch, clings on tight to the feeling because it _grounds_ him.

fuck, he feels jaskier so deep inside him, touching him where none have done so before, making him _feel_ things he never thought possible, god, he feels so _full_ , stretched out and wanted, so hot and trembling–

but the physicality of their sex, is nothing compared the emotions which are created by jaskier’s words - because the bard is a wordsmith and his songs have power, have magic, they cast spells and geralt is always left feeling thoroughly bewitched.

“you’re so strong–”

jaskier withdraws,

“you’re so beautiful–”

jaskier sinks in,

“you’re so clever–”

he rocks against geralt, writhing and snapping his clever hips,

“you’re a good man, so _good_ , people don’t deserve you–”

and the witcher tries to meet his thrusts, weakly meeting jaskier’s plunging movements with jerking twitches of his body. his muscles have relaxed, his bones are dissolving - all he can do is loop his legs around jaskier’s slender waist and hold on as the bard pours affection and elation into his soul.

“tell me,” he breathes, digging his nails in deep, _biting_ into jaskier’s unblemished skin, “ _tell me_.”

“i love you,” jaskier vows, “i want you, you might be their monster, but you’re my hero - fuck, i _love_ you.”

and geralt throws his head back against the plush pillows, because jaskier’s words sound like a prayer and fuck, he hopes someone is listening - he hopes someone will let him stay with his bard. 

he hopes he gets to keep his songbird’s love.

“i love you.”

the feelings build, 

“god, you’re so good to me.”

his veins burn, 

“look at how good you’re being to me.”

his heart swells,

“you’re perfect.”

he doesn’t think he can–

“geralt, _my_ geralt.”

he can’t–

“you’re _mine_.”

and then,

it’s too much.

because then,

their pleasure reaches an _apex_ , the bliss crests - geralt’s mind blanks out as he crashes into the euphoria of being _loved_. his body shakes, his eyes are clenched shut, as he rides wave after wave after wave of elation and joy. 

above him, the bard breathes with quivering sighs - he feels jaskier lean against him, resting against his forehead, brushing their noses sweetly as their lips drift and wisp together. he feels worshipped, precious, sheltered.

the bliss lingers,

the moment stretches,

and jaskier’s arms wrap around him, cradling and securing,

and geralt feels _good,_

so _good_.

because jaskier is with him, so how can he feel anything but?


End file.
